As soon as I make it across the fluffy, olive-colored rug and over to his bed, I grab his wrists and squeeze his hands. They smell like Betadine and are striped with tape that holds IV lines in place, but I don't care.
I lay one of his hands back on his blankets, but keep the other one sealed in mine. I force myself to look at his still face and smile as if he's really here.
"Hi, C. How's it going?"
I imagine him answering, because otherwise having a conversation with myself is just too weird. I kiss him on the cheek and sit down beside him in the cream wing-backed chair I've come to think of as mine.
"When I called the other day, Nanette told me you opened your eyes for a few minutes. I can't believe I missed that! I had a test that day. You'll be glad to know I passed." The machines around him hum their response, and for a second, I get tripped up. It's been two months now, but sometimes it's still too strange to see Cross like this. "So...what else is there? Suri and Adam might be having problems, but she keeps it quiet. I think she likes to pretend they're okay. Probably because she wants them to be. You know she loves her decorating stuff in San Fran and I think Adam is pushing her to move to New York with him again. It is the place for literary people I guess, but it's just not Suri. I think she's coming here tomorrow. If she gives you the scoop, I want to know."
I babble some about classes. In the time since Cross's accident, the new year has come and gone and I've started the last semester of my second year of grad school. I search my mind for other updates, skipping over Mom (still in rehab), pop culture (Cross wouldn’t care), and my non-existent dating life. I look down at my jeans. "I've been on the caveman diet. I've lost some weight. I feel good, so I might keep going."
I tell him more, sharing everything with him except for Hunter. Not that there's anything to tell. I haven't seen him since that night, and my thoughts about him pull me in two directions. The main one, though, is interest. I still want him, more than ever, and more and more I'm coming to understand that there is something seriously wrong with me. I'm not sure I want a real relationship, and for me, Hunter is just a fantasy. I think about his soft kiss on my mouth and I want to tell Cross, "He wouldn't treat me like he treats the other women. I'm different."
Except, of course, that's stupid.
Putting Hunter out of my mind, I let Cross hear some Neil Young and Grateful Dead on the iPod and then I use a straw to dip a little Sunkist into his mouth. He loves Sunkist, and I firmly believe that he can taste it. I put some strawberry lip balm on his lips and tuck the covers around his broad shoulders. The sheets and blankets are all mine. I wanted him to have things that smelled familiar.
When I get up to leave, fifteen minutes after the arbitrary deadline assigned by Nurse Bitchface, I kiss him on the cheek. It's selfish to play on the feelings he might have had for me, but I need him to wake up.
"I've got to go and read some Victor Hugo, but I'll try to come back tomorrow. I want to hear about your next N-therapy session." N-therapy is where they use some big, swanky machine this hospital patented to stimulate Cross's brain. They talk to him while they wave a wand around his head, and supposedly that helps. It must, because people with brain injures come from all over the place to get treated here. In my mind, this is the very least his awful parents can do.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my coat, feeling sad again. "I don't want to pressure you, Cross, but I really do need you back. I miss you." Tears fill my eyes, and on impulse, I lean down and kiss his cheek again.
When his eyes flutter, I think I'm seeing things. As soon as I realize those are really his blue eyes, I feel my throat constrict, like I'm going to get sick or cry.
"Cross?" My wide eyes cling to his, and I just can't believe it.
I almost faint as Cross blinks. His eyes tear, and he makes a face like he's tasting something really sour. I feel something tickle my abs, and I realize he's grabbing my shirt. I back up, gaping at him. Laughing. "Oh my God, Cross. Hi."
His mouth lolls, and I can see he's trying to speak. I look down at myself and start to cry as I watch him white-knuckling my shirt. My heart is beating so fast as I clasp his hand. I look into his eyes.
"Are you okay?" I would do anything on Earth to take that lost look off of his face. "Do you want me to call someone?"
His eyes squeeze shut, and his chest makes a rumbling noise. "No."
"You don't?" I whisper through my tears.
He shakes his head just a little and mumbles something. His lids drift lower, and I grab his cheek, frantic he is falling back asleep. Instead, his eyes peek up at me again, and he mumbles, "...ch of a headache. And..."
He swallows, and I squeeze his hand. "What was that?"
His eyes shut, and I bite my lip—but again, they flutter open. The blue of his irises looks faded. "I'm sorry," he rasps.
"For what?" My voice cracks, so I have to swallow. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."
His eyes roll back slightly, but his arm is tugging me closer. Still sweating and hardly able to breathe from shock, I lean down and wrap my arms around his shoulders.
"It's okay," I whisper against his cheek. I'm rubbing his back, wanting to be sure that he knows someone loves him. Someone misses him. "I'm sorry, too. We're friends again. You're my best friend. Stay here with me, please."
I hear him swallow. Then his eyes are fluttering again, his eyelashes like butterflies against my face. They're closing as he says, "Stay…”
The soft word is the last thing that I hear before a nurse bursts into the room, and Cross is gone again.
*
The rest of the week passes slowly. I'm spending a lot of my time in mandatory group study sessions, which I definitely don't need in order to understand and apply our class material. If I wanted to spend all my time with other people, I'd have joined a think tank, not signed on to become an Ethics professor.
I'm grouchy and tired when I come home from campus Friday afternoon, toting a little brass scale for a presentation my Plato & Aristotle group is making to a high school honors class next Wednesday. The project is twenty percent of our grade, and I'm already looking forward to talking to the little twerps.
The driveway at Crestwood Place is almost half a mile long, taking me through a beautiful apple orchard and then around several fields where horses graze. The horses belong to Suri's parents, who are so seriously amazing, at times I pretend they are my own. Trent Dalton is the most modest big-wig computer software dude you could ever meet, and Gretchen is an elementary school counselor, working every day of the work week entirely pro bono. Suri has two sisters, Rachel and Edith, and I spot Edith's white horse, Samson, as I pull into the circle drive directly in front of the house.